I stare at the screen. How long has it been since I’ve had someone genuinely curious about the process of writing a song rather than the fame that comes after?
As if on cue, the universe sends a reminder of said fame. There’s a quick knock on my dressing room door, the kind that’s more warning than request, and suddenly, the room is full of people.
My tour manager, Brad, comes in armed with his tablet, brows flying up at finding me still in my stage clothes. My publicist, Keely, reminds me about a radio interview in the morning. Someone from the label wants to talk about the single release.
“Anthony, you killed it tonight!” Brad says, barely looking up from his screen. “The crowd was insane during the acoustic set. Keely’s already got three outlets asking for quotes.”
“Great,” I say.
I ignore the excited chatter around me because I’m already typing a reply to Nick.
AntD
Writing a song usually starts with a feeling I can’t shake. Like an itch in my brain.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
So, do the words come first or the melody?
AntD
Depends. Sometimes I hear a phrase and build around it.
“We need you to sign these,” someone shoves merchandise in my face.
I quickly grab the pen and sign T-shirts, hats, vinyl records that’ll probably end up on eBay by morning, and someone’s shoe for reasons I don’t ask about, before checking to read Nick’s reply.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
That’s so cool. So, how long does it take to write a song?
AntD
The initial idea? Minutes. Making it not suck? That’s when time becomes meaningless, and I forget to eat.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
“Making it not suck” should be the official motto for all creative endeavors.
I’m so busy reading Nick’s message that I hardly notice when Gloria comes in and heads straight to Brad. But I’m forced to put down my phone when she comes over to me, her expression serious.
“We need to talk.”
“What is it?”
“I found the source of that article about your anonymous donation to the LGBTQ+ youth shelter.”
My stomach clenches. “Who was it?”
“Joey.”
“Joey? As in Joey, my backup dancer who’s been with me since my first tour?”
“Yeah, we think he was also the person who gaveEntertainment Weeklythose photos from your birthday party last year.”
My chest goes tight. Joey. Fucking Joey, whom I’d trusted. Who I’d let into my actual life, not just the Anthony Devine show. The guy who’d made me laugh during the exhausting stretches of tour when everything felt like too much.
“Joey sold me out?” The words feel wrong in my mouth. Bitter. “He was at that birthday party as my friend, not as—” I can’t even finish the sentence.
